Smoker's Lounge
by Zo One
Summary: It all started with a bad habit. UkUs; UsUk.
1. Part One

**Smoker's Lounge**

_Part One_

Summary: It all started with a bad habit.

_Important Notes: _Written for **Superkawaiifreak**, but she just doesn't know it yet.

'Arthur Kirkland' the seemingly golden-plated name badge bellowed to all within the vicinity. The man who sported the badge merely sighed, forlorn and tired, as he pressed open the heavy wooden door at the far end of a pointlessly long hallway. It was his scheduled fifteen, but he felt that maybe he'd give himself an extra few – he deserved them after a day like today.

The room was dimly lit, a smoky haze permeating throughout the air in wispy, white, tendrils. Only the sounds of hushed chatter and long exhalations reached his ears, and he was thankful for a place that he could recluse to – away from the loud, obnoxious and sometimes outrageous customers he was forced to deal with on a near regular basis. He was pretty sure he had better things to waste his life on than serving some prat's every beck and call.

Uncaring, he settled himself into an empty spot on a deep, maroon colored sofa, pulling out a polished silver cigar case from his back pocket and flipping it open. People had called him old-fashioned, and more often grumpy, but he had a taste for the more refined things in life – and the more European things he had grown accustomed to when he grew up in London. America, as he had not-so-happily discovered, was more of a melting pot of rubbish and horrible grammar, than a place to settle and experience. And yet here he was, slaving away as a hotel clerk in some swank hotel in New York – waiting for his chance to hop back on a plane and get back across the pond where he belonged. America be damned.

But in this one room he found solace. The heavy atmosphere and quiet din reminded him of smoggy London when he was a lad, how whenever it rained he would sit in the little window seat of their home and read a good book, and that whenever he looked up at Big Ben, he always imagined a dragon or something else mysterious and mythical living behind its massive face. Between tired fingers, he lifted a partially snubbed cigar to his lips, one that he had started smoking this morning, and lit a match, puffing a few times before the tip was sufficiently burning. He wasn't a child anymore.

Someone plopped unceremoniously on the sofa next to him, huffing and groaning in a way that could only be described as annoying. He glanced over, catching a man with sandy blond hair pat himself down before extracting a rumpled pack of cigarettes from his khaki's pocket. "Aw, shit," the blond whined, looking at his pack of (were those _menthol?_) cigarettes with a depressed glare. "I lost my lighter…" When no one jumped to give him a light, he huffed, crossing his arms and glancing around – officially catching Arthur staring. "Hey! You got a light?"

Arthur frowned around the butt of his cigar before taking in an exaggerated breath and blowing the smoke out his nose. "Perhaps," was all he said, fiddling with the flat cigar case in his hand.

The other man's head tilted in a near comical way, seemingly expecting Arthur to whip out a lighter at any second. "Wow," he mumbled after a stretching silence. "You're so old school. I didn't know people still smoked cigars."

"That's simply because you're uncultured," Arthur replied, somewhat venomously. This man was interrupting his self reenactment of home. London did not include persistent Americans breathing down his neck for a lighter. And if it did – he liked to indulge in the fantasy that there weren't.

Said American frowned, pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose, even though they hadn't shown the slightest inkling of falling. "Damn, you in a bad mood or something?" He tapped the back of the sofa with a nicotine wanton hand. "You British? I'm just asking 'coz you have this accent and –"

Arthur tossed his matchbook at the man, his brows furrowing more and more with each word that vomited itself from the man's mouth. "Bloody hell," he grumbled with more acid than he had originally intended, "take the whole damn thing if it'll make you shut up."

"Uh… Thanks, I guess." The sandy blond busied himself with lighting his cigarette and inhaling deeply, as if it were the first breath he'd taken all day. "Finally, fuck, I hate it when my breaks come late." He sent the Briton a side glance, tucking the book of matches into the breast pocket of Arthur's burgundy shirt. "Here's these back. I don't know how you can stand to use those – lighters are way better."

Arthur sent him a sardonic glare, batting away the hand that so casually intruded upon his personal space. "Don't touch me, you git," he bit out. Briefly he glanced down at his wristwatch and sighed – it was time to return to his slave labor. He bent, snuffing out his cigar on the sole of his shoe and placed it back within the silver case.

He stood, stretching slightly before making his way out of the room, feeling no better than when he had come stumbling inside.

"Whelp, see you later, Arthur," the American said cheerfully as Arthur pulled the door open. He automatically looked down at his nametag and snarled. Why did he suddenly feel _violated_?

-o-

The smoke of the room had cleared a bit, as it wasn't normal break hours at the moment. And that was good for him. He liked the quiet. It was relaxing. It had been several days since he ran into that rather obnoxious American, and for that he was grateful. Arthur wasn't sure if he could live through another run-in with that man – at least, not without being arrested for battery or assault.

Today had been a particularly boring day, as all of the customers that had stopped in today were mostly businessmen and maybe a docile family of sedated children or two. It had been strange, and disconcerting. He was so used to the loud-mouthed American children and the couples practically snogging on his desk, that he had been somewhat… underwhelmed all day.

The door to the lounge creaked open, but Arthur chose to ignore it in favor of watching the smoke of his cigar waft lazily into the air before disappearing into the white ceiling. Fucking hell, he was bored.

"Oh hey, Arthur, right?" He forcibly turned his head at the voicing of his name, scowling when he saw the sandy blond American approach him and settle himself on the other side of his sofa. "Long time no see."

Arthur huffed, flicking a few ashes into a blue ashtray. "Not long enough, in my opinion." He turned his face away and refocused on smoking. It was going to require his undivided attention, he decided.

The American bawed, dramatically clutching a hand over his heart. "You wound me," he jaunted to the Briton, frowning when he received no response. "Wow, you're such a Debbie Downer."

At that, Arthur blustered, nearly spitting out his cigar on accident. "What the hell did you just call me, you prat?"

"Hm?" The American smiled broadly at his new found attention before changing the subject, "You should really take a chill-pill, you know that? You don't even know my name, so stop acting like I ran over your dog or something."

A low grumble came from Arthur's lips as he thought of at least ten ways to end the annoying blond that sat next to him. "Why don't you just leave me alone?" he asked. And it was a good question at that, as the American simply settled him with a blank look. When the staring continued, however, he got a feeling that maybe he'd asked the wrong thing, and that the American was too dull witted to find something else to say than what he'd already planned in his empty head. Arthur sighed. "I don't need to know your name to –"

"Alfred!" the man interrupted with uncalled for enthusiasm. "My name's Alfred Jones. It's nice to finally meet you properly, Mr. Arthur Kirkland."

He stretched his hand out in greeting, and Arthur looked at the appendage as if it were made of sewage. But, being the gentleman that he was raised to be, Arthur shook Alfred's hand, probably (definitely) using more pressure than was truly necessary. The American seemed a little put off by it too, pulling his hand back and shoving it into his pocket glumly. Served him right. "Brilliant," Arthur said sarcastically, taking another long drag from his cigar. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have better things to be doing than sitting here with the likes of you."

He pretended not to see the childish gestures the American gave him as he left.

-o-

"So, why do you smoke those things anyway, huh Arthur?" the American was asking him as he lit up a new cigar for the day. Where the other blond had come from, Arthur wasn't sure, but he'd stopped trying to figure it out a while ago. "I mean, aren't they _way _more expensive?"

The Briton sent Alfred a dull glare. He was passed the point of directly telling the oblivious man to go fuck himself – because it never worked, and over the past few weeks, he had fallen into some semblance of a routine that consisted of him somewhat amusing the American for a few minutes before stalking out of the lounge feeling more tense than ever. "Please," he griped, "price isn't everything. It's about quality. And these happen to be over a thousand times better than those fags you smoke."

Alfred made a face at the word 'fags', and Arthur resolved to say it more often. "Oh really now? What makes you say that? I find my _cigarettes _to be perfectly fine."

Arthur hummed a little as he blew out a cloud of scented smoke. "They're made better, and come without all that rat poison and cat piss that they throw in yours."

The sandy blond gave the filter of his cigarette an uneasy look. "Ah, well… Maybe I like cat piss."

"I wouldn't doubt it," Arthur shot back, trying to steel his face into an impassive line. It was difficult – as he knew that the American had spoken without thinking first (of course), but it was insanely hard to _not _laugh in his ignorant face. "Well, would you look at the time?" he muttered sardonically, not even glancing down at his watch. "Time for me to go."

As usual, he snuffed what remained of his cigar on the sole of his shoe and tucked it away. When he was about to leave, a foreign tug on the leg of his pants had him pausing. "Hey Arthur, what part of the hotel do you work at? I never see you around – except in here. I'm just a little curious."

"Go be curious somewhere else, you wanker." Alfred frowned, but released his pant leg anyway. Arthur escaped before anything else could come up.

-o-

With a drilled ease, Arthur made a note that the family with the inexcusable number of children had checked out, returned their keycards and left behind two broken lamps and a half melted plastic bowl in the microwave. He'd make sure the damages were charged to their credit card.

He shuffled through a pile of papers, sorting out the reservations that had been made for tomorrow, and keeping them at the ready for whoever had the morning shift. It's not like he had much to do this late at night besides catch up on the bookings and cleaning what office space they had. Thankfully he didn't have to provide much customer service, not when most customers were sleeping – or getting drunk.

But the sound of the little desk bell ringing brought his attention away from the white papers and towards the front of his desk. "How may I… Bloody hell Jones, how did you find me here?" he barked once he recognized the stupid grin and messy blond hair that stood just on the other side of the granite-top counter.

"Wasn't that hard," Alfred boasted with a cheesy smile – no different than usual. "I just asked around. Turns out a lot of people know where the stuffy British guy works."

Arthur looked offended for a moment. "S-stuffy!" he repeated, aghast. He was _not _stuffy. These people were uncouth! "Simpletons; the lot of you!"

Alfred simply continued to smile, leaning onto the counter and letting his arms splay across the countertop overdramatically. "What time do you get off tonight, Arthur?" he asked instead, tapping a blunt nail to a rhythmless tune onto the granite surface.

"And what makes you think I'd tell you?" he ruffed, setting down his stack of organized papers with more force than necessary. Why was it that this man couldn't take a hint? He was short of committing homicide, and yet the American still continued to follow him around and hound him whenever he had the misfortune of running into him. "Do I look daft to you?"

The American paused, looking as if he'd just been presented with a double edged sword. "Well, I wouldn't say –"

With a loud jingling of bells, the front doors opened and closed. A young woman with long, curly brown hair and a knitted green cap stomped inside, patting down her own arms in attempt to ward off the cold November weather. Her dusky green eyes lifted from her boots to the service counter. "Oh, hello," she nearly purred, pulling off her coat as she made her way behind the counter. "Arthur you have a guest? Isn't this new – I'll have to write about it in my diary. How strange."

Arthur harrumphed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest. He didn't know if he should be embarrassed or mortified. "Elizaveta," he said; his tone dark and brimming with warning, "This is _not _my guest. He works here, and he was just leaving."

"Isn't that convenient!" she announced, clapping her hands together yet being able to retain a look of boredom on her face. "You're just leaving, too! Its a few minutes early, but you have too much overtime. Ludwig will kill you if he finds out you're doing it on purpose."

Finding no flaws in the woman's logic, Arthur snapped his mouth shut and gathered up his trench coat that he had lain across the back of a chair. "Fine," he snapped, heading for the time clock down a nearby hallway.

Elizaveta watched him go with an amused expression before glancing over at Alfred, who seemed confused by the entire interaction. "He's a Scrooge," she said to the American with a lopsided smile, "but when he loosens up, he's really sweet. Sometimes. I've only witnessed it twice."

"That rarely, huh?" Alfred asked, his semi-permanent grin returning to his face. "Man," he whistled, "I'd like to see that."

The woman began thumbing through the papers that Arthur had finished organizing. "If you'd like, I could give you a couple pointers," she suggested ruefully, her brows waggling in an obscenely suggestive way, and Alfred blanched, shaking his head. "Aw, that's no fun." She shrugged. "Anyway, Arthur really likes his tea – holding true to his British stereotype. Also, he's a pretty bad cook, although doesn't like to admit it. I think he tried to poison me once with a scone. And finally, don't let him drink. I've only heard bad things about that."

Alfred grimaced as the woman spoke, pretending that he was disinterested in what she was saying while he waited for Arthur to show up once again. "How do you know all this anyway?" he asked after a moment's pause.

"Oh, you know; this and that." She stapled a few pages together with a malicious grin.

"Right."

Arthur appeared from around the corner, his trench coat halfway slung over his shoulders. "What are you still doing here, git?" he ground out, displeased by his sour turn of luck. "Don't you have someplace else to be, besides here torturing me?"

Alfred shrugged, following the Briton outside into the bone chilling cold, ignoring the strange looks that Elizaveta sent their way. "Nah, not really," he responded with a bored tone. "Actually, I wanted to ask ya if you wanted to go and grab something to drink. Like… tea or something."

Pausing, Arthur turned to stare incredulously at the American. "Tea, at ten in the night? Are you daft?" He stuffed his hands into his coat pockets. "Never you mind, don't answer that."

"So… are you free on Friday, then?" There was a little trickling sound of hope in the American's voice that kept Arthur from exploding into a homicidal fit. "I mean, I don't want to sound creepy or anything, but I kinda just want to hang out. Is that wrong?"

Arthur sighed, once again failing to find a flaw of logic – it was too late at night to be thinking anyway. "No… it's not, I suppose. Blasted… I have Friday off. I'll be at the Corner Café just down the street at noon."

Despite the snarky tone and rushed, force-fed plans, Alfred grinned and clapped Arthur on the back. "Cool! I'll see you then!"

Arthur watched Alfred hail a cab and leave, tiny flakes of snow beginning to flutter down from the overcast sky. He set towards home, dismissing the thought that maybe – but not really – that he was somewhat excited for Friday. Because he wasn't.

-o-

On Friday morning Arthur woke groggily, physically rolling out of bed and lying on the floor for a few moments while he collected himself before getting up and trudging to the shower. He loved his days off, which he normally spent reading and catching up on a few chores that his busy work schedule didn't allow him to keep up on.

He toweled at his damp hair as he walked across his small flat – that to him, was reminiscent of a hole in the wall. The clock on the microwave proclaimed it was nine in the morning, which left him with three hours before he should be at the café – not that he was counting or anything. He pulled a few cold scones from his refrigerator and munched on them, not really caring that they were stale – or maybe burnt, sometimes it was hard to tell.

With a tired sigh, he sat on the old sofa that he'd managed to buy dirt cheap from some bloke that had planned on dumping it in the garbage. It was time for a little telly, and he ate his scone, mindlessly watching the news and half of an even more mindless cartoon. "I'll never understand American 'humor'," he grumbled to himself.

A half finished cigar dangled from his lips as he pulled his black coat tighter around his body, trying to ward away the nipping wind. People bustled around him, walking what he determined to be too fast, but not fast enough whenever he had the misfortune of stepping too near one of the homeless. Arthur felt horrible for the people – what did they do when winter hit full force? Every time he heard a beg for change, he vowed over and over that he would return to London as soon as he possibly could. He did _not _want to be homeless in a place like this.

The Corner Café came into view and he leaned up against the building to snuff out his cigar, ignoring any comments that flew his direction about being in the way. Dignified, he entered the café as he normally did, grabbing a newspaper and settling himself into his favorite corner by the tall window. The same young woman that served him every Friday, shimmied up to the table and set a steaming cup of chamomile tea down, smiling broadly as she did so. "The usual for ya," she said with a wink as she left.

Arthur couldn't complain. He enjoyed his routines too much to scold the woman for assuming he wanted anything at all. With a flick of his wrists, he opened the paper, scanning the headlines for anything of remote interest.

The door chimed merrily as someone else entered the café, the serving girl sauntering up with a smile. "Hello," she cooed, "Can I help you today?"

A pause. "Actually, I was looking –" Arthur looked up just in time to see Alfred spot him. "Found him!" Alfred sang out, ignoring the serving girl in favor of seating himself on the other side of Arthur's table. "Hey! I'm kind of surprised you're even here. I mean, I thought the other night was probably a last ditch attempt on me, huh?"

"What?" Arthur tried his best not to roll his eyes, and failed miserably. "I'm not flaky," he said with a grimace. "And every time I tell you to bugger off, you don't listen."

Alfred laughed too loudly for the quiet of the café. "Yeah, listening isn't one of my best traits – or at least when I don't want to. I can be an awesome listener!"

"I'm sure." Arthur brought his tea to his lips, relishing its warmth as he peered out at the light dusting of snow along the city streets. He wished he had a fireplace. He could just imagine curling up next to the fire with a good read. Something romantic and fantastical – maybe with pirates.

A hand waved in his face, and Arthur scowled as he broke from his reverie. "Hello? Earth to Arthur, do you read me, Arthur?" Alfred said, speaking into a closed fist and pretending to make static noises.

"What the hell are you doing?" he asked, even though his better judgment told him to refrain from speaking to the annoying American altogether.

Alfred smiled lightly. "You really spaced out," he answered, pausing a moment before breaking out into a peal of laughter. "Ha! 'Spaced out', ha – ha, wow, get it? Man, I crack myself up sometimes." He slapped his hand on the tabletop, ignoring the scalding glare Arthur sent his way. "Excuse me, could I get a tall white mocha please?" he asked as a serving walked passed. She nodded and continued on her way. "So, Arthur, how've you been? I haven't seen you these past couple days."

Arthur purposefully stuck his nose into the newspaper despite the absurd article that rested before his eyes – who the hell cares about some bloody penguin in Australia? "Good to know you stopped stalking me for a couple days."

"Stalking…?" The sheer confusion in the American's voice was enough to make Arthur look up from his paper, and damn if he didn't look upset. "We work in the same hotel – granted it's _huge_, but it's your fault 'coz you smoke."

The Briton couldn't follow the logic, or lack thereof, and said, "So do you."

"Exactly!" Alfred raised a finger into the air and made a little invisible checkmark. "I wasn't stalking you, dude. We probably would have never met if we didn't use the smoker's lounge."

Arthur glanced at the American wearily. Was this conversation going anywhere? "Right, true fact, I suppose. That doesn't explain you following me around, though."

They paused as the serving girl brought Alfred his coffee, tucking a napkin suspiciously into the American's hand before skipping off. "I didn't follow you anywhere!" Alfred huffed, taking a quick drink of his coffee. "I just wanted to hang out – how many people can say that they've got a cool British friend?"

Arthur's mind stopped at the words 'cool' and 'friend'. Since when was he either? He sent the American and confused glance. Alfred merely smiled and looked down at the napkin in his hand. "Err, hey, Arthur. You want this girl's number?"

Alfred waved the napkin in Arthur's face, and the Briton slapped the appendage away with a scalding look. Some friend indeed.

-o-

"I have a new word for you," Arthur said casually as he took up a seat on the fading maroon colored couch in the lounge. Alfred inclined his head towards the Briton to show that he was listening. "Persnickety."

Over the course of a few weeks, Alfred had been trying to decode (or at least that's how the American phrased it) British English, with little to no success. So Arthur had taken it upon himself to self impose the more masterful language upon Alfred. If anything, it was amusing at times, but rather pointless.

Alfred tapped his chin as he thought; an unlit menthol cigarette nestled between his lips. Lately Arthur noticed that the American had been smoking less and less – preferring to allow the fag to hang from his mouth than to smoke it. "Persnickety… Yanno, I'm pretty sure I've heard that one before – on T.V." He gave Arthur a half lidded stare. "Isn't it a type of cheese, or something?"

The snort that erupted from Arthur's mouth could have been attributed to either outrage or suppressed laughter. "I – what! No, not even close." He closed his eyes in disbelief, lighting his own cigar as he relaxed further into the sofa cushions. "It's about being picky. Very picky."

"Oh…" Alfred grinned. "So, kind of like you, then, huh? You're probably the pickiest person I know!"

Arthur blustered, shooting Alfred a vehement glare. "I am _not _persnickety!" he hissed, crossing his arms tightly. "I just know when I like something a certain way. It's not like I spend my time looking for the most expensive and drawn out ways to do things."

Alfred only laughed, pulling his unlit cigarette from his mouth and stuffing it back into the rumpled carton. "Okay, so what about me? Do you like me?"

"W-what kind of stupid question is that?" Arthur breathed in a deep lungful of smoke, willing himself to calm down. Moronic Americans, always finding ways to rub on his nerves. "I don't have to like you, you're my friend," he answered, somewhat backwardly. He didn't care that the statement had simultaneously made no sense and contradicted itself, but it kept Alfred shut up, and right now that's all he cared about.

After a couple minutes of silence, Alfred stood, giving Arthur a small smile. "So we _are _friends, then," he said and left, leaving a stuttering Arthur behind to mourn his horrible word choice.

-o-

"Don't you have a little bird or someone you'd rather bring along with you? I have more important things I could be doing."

Alfred cast him a side glance as they walked (more like power walked to the Briton) through the crowded New York streets. "Eh, not really. Why? What could be more important than going to catch a movie with your buddy?"

Arthur grumbled something obscene under his breath. "There are quite a few things I'd rather do than be chummy with you."

"And yet here you are."

The Briton bristled. "Don't mock me, boy."

The cinema was sparse, as it was only two in the afternoon on a Monday. How he had gotten the day off, Arthur would never know – and how Alfred knew he had the day off was a mystery he didn't feel like bothering himself with.

A bored looking man greeted them stiffly, pointing out a few movie selections and commenting on the price reduction for matinee. "Let's go see that one, Art," Alfred cawed, pointing at a poster decorated with zombies and an axe-wielding murderer. Arthur was too busy fuming over the spontaneous nickname to disagree, and was promptly dragged through the ticket line.

"Do you want any snacks?" Alfred asked as he rounded about the concessions stand, eyeing the large, brightly lit signs depicting what candies and other artery clogging cuisine they had for sale. "We should get a jumbo popcorn…"

Arthur shook his head at the American's childish display, watching the sandy blond get excited as he peered into the glass candy case. "I'll just have a large coke," he told the clerk with a bemused expression.

Alfred looked scandalized as the clerk nodded and began to prepare Arthur's soda. "Just a coke?" he repeated, sounding as if he'd heard a foreign language and couldn't quite grasp what was being said. "I'm being awesome and paying for everything, and is all you want is a _coke_?"

"Wh-what! What makes you think you're paying for me?" The Briton crossed his arms over his chest and tried to level the sandy blond with a burning glare, conveniently forgetting that Alfred had paid for his ticket while he was busy trying to brainwash himself about that nickname. "I'm perfectly capable of paying for myself."

The American rolled his sky blue eyes, waiting for the clerk to return to the counter and said, "Okay, I'd also like the skittles, gummy bears, uhm, oh and the hot tamales and a large popcorn with extra butter and, and uh, a large frozen coke!"

Arthur sympathized with the clerk as he began to scrounge up Alfred's order. "You might as well order one of everything," he said crassly, watching with irritation as Alfred actually seemed to consider the idea. "I hope you don't plan on eating all of that! You'll make yourself sick." Not that he cared.

"Well, of course I do – otherwise it'd just be a waste. Duh." Alfred laughed, slapping his bank card on the counter as the clerk ran off to get his frozen coke. "I think I'll save the skittles for tomorrow while I'm at work." And with a sage nod at that last thought, Alfred turned and paid for their snacks and began to try and stuff as much as he could into his arms.

Arthur just grabbed his coke and amusedly watched Alfred attempt to carry everything that he had ordered. Finally the sandy blond managed to warp his arm around the tub of popcorn with the boxes of candy in one hand and his frozen soda in the other. "You got it all?" the Briton asked with a rueful smile.

The American nodded, happily slurping on his straw in response.

"Ve – May I have your tickets, please?" A young man asked airily as they approached the long hallway containing the theaters. Arthur dug out his ticket from his pocket and handed it to the brunet who couldn't be a day over fifteen by the looks of him. "Thank you! I hope you enjoy your show! And you sir?"

Alfred's brows creased together as he looked at the food in his arms. "Shoot. Hey Arthur, my ticket's in my front pocket, you wanna grab it for me?"

Arthur blustered, turning a horrified shade of pink. Quickly he snatched the frozen coke from the American's hand. "Get it your damned self!"

"Ah, oh hey, good idea!" He dug into his pocket with his now freed hand and pulled out his ticket, handing it to the teenaged airhead with a grin. "Here ya go!"

The young brunet took the ticket and ripped off the side, stuffing the scrap into a little metal box. "Grazie! Have a wonderful time in the theater!" He handed Alfred the remaining piece of the ticket, and they shared the same, dopey smile.

Arthur rolled his eyes and kicked Alfred's ankle. "Let's go, git. It'll be starting soon, you know."

The theater seemed to be exceptionally dark – not even a row of dim lights in the stairs – as the beginning credits started to roll. They found a seat in the furthest row back, because Alfred claimed that it would give them the best view _ever_. Not that anyone would mind Alfred's incessant jabbering, as they were the only ones within the boxed room.

"Here," Arthur said gruffly, sticking Alfred's frozen coke into a cup holder and sitting in the seat next to it. "How old is this movie anyway? It's dead in here."

Alfred only smiled, settling himself into his chair and propping his feet on the seatback in front of him, despite the disgusted glare Arthur sent him. "Oh, I dunno. I think it's been out for a couple of months now – but I heard it was _really_ scary." Alfred made a guffawed sound. "I doubt it though."

"Uh huh…"

The movie itself was appalling. There was no plot – just a man running around with an axe and smashing in the skulls of zombies (whose costumes were _horrendous_). Arthur was positive he could make better CGI scenes with an old Macintosh, rope and poster board.

Alfred, on the other hand, sat still as stone, holding his tub of popcorn to his chest as if it were a shield. At every moment of 'suspense' in the film, Alfred would proceed to simultaneously hide his face into the popcorn and eat, mumbling something about not being scared by some stupid zombie guts. Arthur wasn't entirely sure which was more pathetic, the movie or Alfred.

As the last scene of the movie continued forth, supposedly surmounting to some grand ending, Alfred had finished his coke, gummy bears and hot tamales, and half of his over-buttered popcorn. "Oh… Oh, he so shouldn't go in that barn, Arthur," Alfred whispered feverishly, his blue eyes wide as he drunk in the eerie scene on the large screen before them.

Arthur simply rolled his eyes. "He's going to. And he's going to die. Can't all be beer and skittles."

"Hey! Don't ruin i – _Ah my fucking God_!" On screen, a rather mutilated looking zombie fell from the barn rafters and onto the hero – or maybe anti-hero (he _was_ a murderer after all) and proceeded to rip out the man's jugular with mangled teeth. Arthur laughed, probably not the most gentlemanly reaction, but Alfred flinched, burying his face into Arthur's nearest shoulder and spilling the half full tub of buttery popcorn on their pants.

Arthur's mouth snapped shut as Alfred breathed a frightened sigh – the hot breath leaking through the wool of his overcoat and tickling his shoulder. "I-Is he dead yet?" Alfred asked after a few moments, bringing Arthur back to reality.

Huffing, he jostled his shoulder, knocking Alfred's glasses askew and forcing the other man to sit up. He turned back to the screen to see the credits rolling. "It's over. I thought you said the movie wasn't scary," he chided, making Alfred grimace. "Also, you'll have to buy me new pants. You covered mine in butter."

"B-buy-!" The American sent him a glare. "Like I'm really going to buy you new pants. Just throw them in the wash."

Arthur snorted, standing in the now lit room and motioned to the large, dark stain on his gray pants. "This is oil, it'll never come out – not very well, at least, and not with the soaps I use."

Alfred set him with a somewhat blasé stare before simply muttering, "Then I'll buy you new soap."

"Not the point, prat!" Arthur took the opportunity to punch the American on the shoulder. Hard.

-o-

"So Arthur, you like video games?" Alfred asked as he settled into what was becoming more and more _their _couch.

Arthur made a face at the suggestion, pulling his cigar from his mouth with a frown. "No. I'd rather not sit and rot my brain with those damned things. Reading is a preferable pastime."

He watched the American shuffle through the information and pout. "Aw, that's kind of boring." Arthur violently poked the man's shoulder, and Alfred yelped; covering his mouth with a hand as idle stares began to point their way. "Would you _stop _that?" he hissed, rubbing his shoulder tenderly. Arthur knew there was still a blue-yellow bruise under the thick leather jacket (one that he was _positive_ was a violation of their dress code), even though it was a week after he'd punched him. Served the git right for ruining his good pants like that.

"Reading is _not _boring," he insisted, taking a calming drag of cigar as Alfred merely fiddled with his lit cigarette between restless fingers instead of smoking it. "It requires a lot more imagination than your video games do."

"Hm, maybe. I don't read much, though. I kind of find it hard to sit still for too long – I always want to work or something." He let out a loud laugh, drawing the attention of other employees yet again. "Hard to believe, eh, Arthur? Yours truly is a workaholic."

Arthur's lips tweaked upwards a little. "A little bit – yet you're always here, so I'll give you some credit." Alfred nodded and snuffed out his cigarette. "At least, admitting you have a problem is the first step to recovery."

Alfred glanced up at the Briton for a second before a grin spread across his face. "You know, you're right. I think on Friday night you should come and have dinner with me – to keep me from thinking about work of course." The American's smile only grew as Arthur's face flushed with anger and embarrassment. "What? And after that we can get shit-faced or something else manly. Sound good?"

It was hard to ignore the stares that came from many of his nameless co-workers (he hardly ever ran into any of them while at his post) and tried to give Alfred the most venomous glare he could muster given the circumstances. It wasn't nearly as potent as he'd hoped. "Alright. Fine. Just, bugger off, you bloody nuisance."

Alfred clapped him on the shoulder with a short laugh. "Awesome! I'll leave you a note later about what time it'll be. Have a nice break!"

The Briton glared daggers at the man's back until he was long out of sight. He simply couldn't fathom how the American managed to twist his words like that, when the blond couldn't even speak a word with more than four syllables.

-o-

He gripped the rumpled paper in a suffocating vice. '_Meet me at Ramses' at 11:30_' the note read in cramped, but very neat handwriting that made Arthur feel somewhat astonished that the American could do _anything _neatly. Unfortunately, he had never been or even heard of this "Ramses'" place before, and was humiliated by the fact that he had to ask several of his co-workers and passerby's as to its location.

Arthur resolved to punch Alfred again when he saw him.

Luckily, however, Ramses' was a semi-popular restaurant within walking distance of the hotel, and he flung his scarf around his neck tighter.

"So," Elizaveta crooned from her spot behind the front counter, "I saw that little note of yours. Are you going out to see your _girlfriend_?" She dragged the last word out with an agonizingly pitchy squeal.

Arthur sputtered, whirling around so he could shake his fist at her as he blustered his way through some horrible excuse and most definitely _not _blush at the connotations. "I don't _have _a girlfriend!" he cried, suddenly pointing at her. "You're the reason I hate women, blasted, girly and nosey – don't make that face at me, prat!"

She merely shrugged at his unfounded accusations, curling a finger around a lock of her hair casually. "Oh, I see. I was mistaken, then."

"Terribly so."

Elizaveta grinned, not unlike the cat peering down at a defenseless canary. "You're going to see your _boyfriend_!" she exclaimed, giving the last word the same treatment as last time, although with a more suggestive hint at the end.

Arthur blushed so hard that his ears rang. Alfred – boyfriend? Maybe something in his head had just exploded; because just the thought of _Alfred_ like… _that_ should have made him vomit, not turn into a self-righteous tomato as he flung insults at a smug European woman before stomping out of the lobby.

It was New York's fault, he told himself, and the dirty American air was slowly poisoning him. He was supposed to be refined – he was an Englishman, and no matter how tall they were, he would always stand a head above any of these plebian louts. He breathed in deeply, feeling the icy December air invigorate and cool his too warm chest. He smiled lightly to himself. Sometimes a mental pep-talk was all he needed to be right as rain.

He found the restaurant easily enough, but noticed with a frown that he was just under an hour early. Arthur glanced down at his mobile. Maybe he should get Alfred's number sometime, if the man insisted on pestering him like this. It was becoming rather inconvenient when he couldn't get a hold of him during moments like these.

Rather than stand outside in the snow and freeze his bits off, Arthur entered the compressed building and shivered as a blast of warm air stretched across his numbing cheeks. The serving host looked at him a bit expectantly, and he faltered. "I uh… I'm just waiting for someone," he mumbled, taking a seat on one of the leather upholstered benches.

The man seemed to nod in understanding, shuffling through a pile of menus in boredom before his mouth made a little 'o' shape as a thought struck him. "Oh, you wouldn't happen to be Mr. Jones' guest, would you?"

"If you mean Alfred Jones, then, yes, I suppose I am he."

"He's here waiting. If you'd follow me…" Arthur's brows furrowed as he stood and trailed after the man. How late was this place open, anyway? He was mildly surprised to find that many seats were actually taken – mostly by younger, flirtatious couples who had no problem snogging in public. Sometimes he forgot that New York hardly slept. It was a bright contrast compared to the sleepier London, and honestly, he'd much rather be sleeping right now.

The host brought him to a little secluded section in the back where the lights were somewhat dimmer and cigarette smoke wafted lazily in the air. "Mr. Jones, your party is here."

Alfred perked up from a corner table, his glasses dipped lower on the bridge of his nose as he held a book open on the table top with a hand. Quickly the sandy blond pushed up his glasses and stuffed the book in a rucksack that was draped over the back of his chair. "Arthur! You're early… like, _really _early!"

The Briton merely shrugged, shedding his overcoat and resting it over a chair back before taking a seat across from Alfred. "I got off at ten," he explained, somewhat grouchily as he played with the lapels of his maroon work shirt. "Elizaveta is impossible to be around, so I just came here instead staying out and turning into a popsicle."

"Oh, ha. I thought you'd want to go home and change." Arthur shrugged and muttered something along the lines of '_these clothes are good enough_'. The American picked up his menu and handed it to Arthur. "I've already ordered. You go ahead and get whatever you want. And don't worry about price – it's my treat."

Arthur scowled at that as he snatched the menu away. "I'm not a _girl_," he complained, looking for the cheapest thing he could find. Damn, he hated the dollar system sometimes. Finally he just picked something out that looked the most like beef and pointed the selection out to Alfred. "I guess I'll just have this." Alfred nodded and waved down a waiter. "I'll have to show you real English cuisine sometime," he murmured, mostly to himself.

Alfred grinned wolfishly. "Oh? Is that an invitation, Arthur?"

The Briton ran a hand along his face in irritation. "Like hell it is." Despite the rebuke, Alfred continued to smile as he ordered for Arthur, who gladly accepted the cool glass of water that the man brought with him.

A comfortable silence fell over their table as Alfred leaned back in his chair and Arthur drummed blunt nails on the smooth tabletop. "By the by, what was it that you were reading earlier?" he found himself asking.

"Reading? Me? Never. I think you were hallucinating." Alfred laughed his too loud laugh, and picked up the salt shaker, playing with the top and sprinkling small, white grains on the black table surface. "Speaking of books, you said you like to read, right? What kinda books do you like?"

Arthur frowned, slapping the American's hands and prying the salt shaker away from him. Sometimes he felt like Alfred's bloody father. "I prefer the classics." A blank stare from Alfred told him that the statement was a little too over the American's head. "Oh, you know, things like Beowulf and Macbeth? Sometimes Dickenson or Orwell…"

Something must have clicked in Alfred's head and he laughed again. "Out, out, damn spot!" he cawed, rubbing his large hands together. "Shit, yeah! I remember that from high school! My teacher was obsessed with every innuendo he ever thought he saw in that play."

"That must have been _so_ long ago," Arthur grumbled tiredly. Hell, Alfred was probably fresh out of school and was getting ready for University or something. He felt old in comparison.

Alfred shrugged. "It's been a few years now. Been keeping busy with a few classes at a local University. I want to get a degree, but I don't have the time anymore."

The waiter came and set their plates before them, one looked to be a plain steak with mashed potatoes and garlic on the side, while Alfred simply picked up a massive looking burger with both hands. "You git, you came here just to get a _burger_? Honestly, what's wrong with you?"

"But they have _really _good burgers here, Arthur," the American protested, lightly squeezing the burger in question until a little bit of grease dribbled from the sides of the buns. "Doesn't it look delicious?"

"No."

Alfred laughed, this time somewhat more subdued as his bright blue eyes sparkled in mirth. "It's okay; I still think you're cool, even if you _do _hate burgers."

Arthur wasn't sure if he should have felt flattered or mortified. He settled for petulant as he stabbed his steak a little viciously. And as Alfred babbled about this and that through the entire meal, Arthur couldn't help but find himself reciprocating some of Alfred's feelings. Sure, the American was too loud, too dumb, too tall, and too… many things, but he had simply inserted himself right next to indifferent Briton, and for some reason Arthur couldn't bring himself to dislike that fact.

He supposed it wasn't too horribly bad to have company every here or there.

Not that he'd ever tell Alfred that.

-o-

_Unimportant Notes_: I'm breaking this off here. Originally this was supposed to be a short, bam-bam thank you ma'am, fic. But it turned into a monster. So I'm breaking it up. I doubt many people want to read a 20k or so word one-shot. Well, maybe, but whatever. This should only have one more part. Or maybe two. I haven't decided yet.

_Semi-important Notes_: I'm American, and a bumpkin at that, so my version of English is vastly different than the norm, but if I wrote England/Arthur wrong or did something incredibly annoying with his thoughts/dialog, please let me know. I'm ignorant when it comes to British English, although my search engine received a massive overhaul while I was working on this, so I hope it won't be utterly appalling. Also, I just used American spelling for everything. It'd be weird to switch back and forth, not to mention frustrating.

Thanks for reading!


	2. Part Two

_Important Notes: _Written for **Superkawaiifreak**! :D

**Smoker's Lounge**

_Part Two_

He watched as the city was slowly decorated with garlands and bright red bows, a thick layer of snow resting on the ground, thrown in heaps onto curbs and parking lots as the snowplows moved through the streets. It was that time of year, and under normal circumstances, he'd be rather happy. But right now, everything that meant Christmas to him was an ocean away. And damned if he wasn't getting irritable watching everyone else be happy.

On a particularly cold night, Arthur clocked out a few minutes late as Elizaveta had gotten stuck in traffic behind a snow plow. Ludwig probably wouldn't care too much – he was a sensible man. Or at least Arthur liked to hope so.

"Elizav – just _what _are you doing?" he bellowed when he walked back into the lobby from the time clock, spotting the woman attempting to pin a bundle of mistletoe above the lobby doors.

She grinned at the Briton wickedly before stepping down from the padded lounge chair she had been using as an impromptu ladder. "Oh, nothing really. I'm just trying to bring a little Christmas to this place. You guys on the day shift are _so _boring – you need to liven up a little." She emphasized her point by gesturing widely to the incredibly blank and _normal _walls around them.

Arthur pinched the bridge of his nose in exasperation. "I understand where you're coming from, but Elizaveta, _mistletoe_? Why not just hang a wreath on the front desk and call it good?" He wasn't sure on the company policy when it came to workspace personalization, but there really couldn't be any offence in a slight partaking of festivities, could there?

"Where's the fun in that?" she asked childishly, crossing her arms across her bosom. Quickly her eyes flicked towards one of the lobby's entrances and smiled slyly. "Oh, hello there, Arthur's…" Elizaveta coughed suddenly, "_friend_. You're leaving late tonight, wouldn't you say?"

Walking slowly into the lobby was Alfred, his heavy leather bomber jacket wrapped securely around him and zippered up to his chin. He looked excessively tired today, and Arthur wasn't sure if he was supposed to be worried about it or not. "Oh – ha, yeah I suppose so. It's the holidays, so we're kinda swamped." He pushed his glasses further up his face. "You're leaving late, too Arthur? I thought your supervisor was a hard ass."

Arthur frowned. "He is."

"It's strange," Elizaveta interjected with a curious frown, "Maybe it's just the holidays, but he hasn't said more than three words to us lately. Sometimes he even looks too scared to mention the cigar ash on the bottoms Arthur's shoes these days."

"Truly troubling. I'm not going to complain though."

A small, sluggish smile crawled onto Alfred's lips. "I see…" He shrugged, distributing the weight of his rucksack that was slung casually over his shoulder.

Feeling somewhat confused and uneasy by the American's subdued behavior (because honestly, Alfred was normally talking like his life depended on it no matter the hour), Arthur trekked outside behind the American, watching the man hesitantly hail for a cab, only to be ignored. Alfred pulled his hand from the air with a frustrated sigh, turning tired blue eyes to rest upon Arthur – their breaths curled lazily from their mouths. "Something wrong?" Alfred finally asked as Arthur fiddled idly with a red ribbon strapped securely to a parking meter.

Bah… Christmas. Seeing it everywhere only reminded him of how out of place he felt here. "Alfred, what are you doing on Christmas?" he found himself asking sullenly, surprising the both of them.

The American looked at him blankly before frowning slightly. "Working," he replied as if it were both painful to admit and yet the most obvious thing in the world. "Why? What about you? Don't you have family or something to go to?"

Arthur frowned. "No. My family's in England. If I had enough money to get back there, I would. And I wouldn't come back, either." He sighed slowly, stuffing his gloved hands into his pockets. "I've only been in America for just over three months. There's really no one for me to spend it with."

A bitter wind blew between the two men, and Arthur glanced down the sidewalk in the direction of his flat. "Sounds kinda lonely," Alfred remarked, pressing his glasses up his nose again, even though they weren't falling in the slightest.

"Your position isn't much better than mine." The Briton pulled the lapels of his overcoat closer to his neck, attempting to keep the chill from his skin. He sent Alfred a glance and decided to simply offer, "If… If you have a lunch – on Christmas that is, I only live five minutes from here. I could… fucking, I don't know, make you something to eat."

At that Alfred looked floored – as if that were the very last thing he ever imagined to spew from Arthur's mouth (which was possible, Arthur was rather shocked he'd said it himself), before a tiny smile set onto his face. "That would be _awesome_," he said, his smile growing brighter and brighter as he thought about it. "I can see about taking a longer lunch. I mean, it's the holiday, and I'll probably have to stay later for it, but I don't mind at all!"

"T-that's good," Arthur mumbled, "brilliant even." Now he was laying it on a bit thick, but seeing Alfred so damned happy, well, he couldn't help it. "I'll give you my address sometime before then." Arthur looked up at the sky, squinting as a few white flakes became noticeable under shining streetlights. "Anyway, have a nice night."

Alfred paused. "Thanks Arthur. Honestly, thank you." If it hadn't been for the deep, serious tone, Arthur might've just waved the thanks off. But Alfred was serious – a strange feat, and is all Arthur could do is nod stupidly in response. "Night, Arthur!"

Before the Briton knew it, a taxi pulled up by the curve and Alfred waved goodbye. He tore his eyes away from the yellow vehicle and began to walk down the sidewalk, dusted with a fresh layer of powdery white snow. This might be an interesting turn of the year.

-o-

The computer screen gave a bright, ethereal glow in the dark of his flat. Arthur squinted as his face was basked in slightly wavering blue light, calculating conversions of dollars into pounds, and noting happily that he had quite a few more pounds than he had anticipated.

He scrolled through a few airline websites, browsing their prices and competitors. He wasn't so much shopping around as he was debating. He could go home, right now – tomorrow – if he wanted. Well, maybe not. He hadn't a place to live, and Arthur was sure his Mother would only allow him under her roof for perhaps a fortnight before kicking him back out.

That meant he needed a place to live and a job – or at least a few promising leads – before heading back across the pond. He was sure his old landlord would cut him some slack, if it came down to it – he had never paid late once, and had left with his flat in pristine shape. So it wasn't entirely hopeless.

An overwhelming feeling of uncertainty ripped through his chest. It was the same feeling that had kept him from sleeping that night – the one that had forced him to turn on his computer and scan over things that he knew to be pointless. He gnashed his teeth angrily at the stupid feeling. What could possibly be making him feel this way?

But, that flight there, it was six hundred and eighty four dollars. That was cheap, and three months away – that was a lot of time. Arthur's hand hovered over the mouse momentarily before he clicked the "purchase" button with authority. Mindlessly he filled out his billing and credit card information, ignoring the fact that he shouldn't buy things on impulse, and definitely _not _at three in the morning. But when the receipt showed in his email, he sighed.

Why did it feel as if he had overcome some impossible hurdle in his life? He was finally going _home_.

-o-

"Here's my address. It would be hard for anyone to get lost trying to find it, even someone like you," he mumbled as he sat, sighing as he became partially enfolded into the couch's cushions. Arthur handed Alfred a folded up piece of paper. He pulled out his cigar case, eyeing the sandy blond wearily for a moment as Alfred simply turned the paper over in his hands repetitively, completely ignoring Arthur's jab. "Something…?"

Alfred tore his tired blue eyes away from the crisp paper, stuffing it into the pocket of his leather jacket. "Nah," he grumbled, a lit cigarette dangling from his lips, the yellow filter bent from strong teeth clenching down upon it. "It's just been a long day, and I cannot _wait _for it to be over."

Arthur glanced at the clock face on the wall above the door, squinting through the thick haze of smoke to decipher the position of hands. "I only have four more hours," he said. Oh, but it felt so close, and yet so far away. "Time is slow going, but perhaps it's because tomorrow is Christmas Eve?"

"Yeah maybe." Alfred took a long, needy breath of his cigarette. "Yanno, as much as I love Christmas, I can't wait for the holidays to be over this year. Too much shit going on. I wish I at least had the day off or something so I can sleep in and eat a few cheeseburgers in peace."

The Briton snorted, lighting his own cigar with amusement. "That's an interesting idea of a vacation. I don't suppose you'll also want a video game and a tub of ice cream while you're at it?"

Alfred turned to look at Arthur, seemingly surprised and star struck at the same time. "You know me _so _well, Arthur." He flicked the ash of his cigarette into the ashtray before turning back to the Briton with a grin. "You must be a wizard."

Arthur could only chuckle.

-o-

There was nothing particularly special about Christmas morning anymore. He was no longer a child, waiting for the first rays of sunlight to peep over the tops of buildings so he and his brothers could rush into their parent's bedrooms and wake them for presents. There was no more family gathering around a grand, finely decorated tree; or around the long, rectangular table as they ate Christmas ham and his Mother's famous deserts.

Hell, he didn't even have to pretend to believe in Santa any more for Peter's sake. His youngest brother was now old enough to know that it was, in fact, their parents that hid those mysterious gifts.

But that somehow didn't destroy the magic he felt when he looked out his iced window and onto the snow covered streets below. It was as if Winter himself had come to reside within New York, breathing his frosty breath upon them and nestling feelings of warming comfort and family and love into the hearts of the citizens as they walked down the sidewalks. Arthur smiled.

His cold flat was soon warm and a bit stuffy as the oven began to work for the next few hours, baking, roasting and frying a decent sized meal for two, lonely men on a holiday meant for togetherness.

Arthur pulled a tray of scones from his oven and frowned lightly down at them. Maybe he left them in for a tick too long, if the slightly blackened edges told him anything. But he'd just scrape that off with a butter knife and no one would be the wiser.

There was a loud knock on the door that foiled his plans on salvaging the scones, and he set the tray on the stovetop, turning the oven off as he pulled the mitts from his hands. "Coming," he called over his shoulder. He made sure there wasn't any visible smoke that couldn't be blamed on cigars before heading to the door and opening it.

Alfred stood on his doorstep, grinning like an idiot. "Merry Christmas!" Alfred practically shouted as the door opened, smacking the American with a pleasant wave of heat.

"Happy Christmas, Alfred," Arthur replied, stepping aside for Alfred to come inside. He wasn't necessarily proud of his flat, but he kept it in good shape, despite its rather seedy location. "I'm… glad you stopped by."

The American only grinned wider as he stepped inside and closed the door securely behind him. "Wow," he whistled immaturely, "You sure do keep a clean house, Arthur. Why am I not surprised? I mean, I was a little worried on my way up here – I think your downstairs neighbor is a convict, by the way, but seriously wow. It's like you live in your own pocket universe in here."

The Briton paused. "Thank you…?"

"You're welcome!" Alfred toed his shoes off and set them next to the door. "Oh, so I managed to nab a three hour lunch. I had too much overtime, so this helps. Doesn't get rid of it, but yeah." He buried himself into the sofa that Arthur had managed to buy dirt cheap from the random bloke, sighing heavily and stretching. "Is it just me, or does something smell burned?"

Arthur snapped back into reality with a curse and he dashed back into the adjoining kitchen. He dug through a drawer and produced a butter knife, and pulling the trashcan out from under the sink, he began shaving off the blackened bottoms of the scones. For a moment he thought the task pointless, until Alfred walked in with a curious look on his face. He'd promised the American true English cuisine! He couldn't ruin that!

"Whatcha doing, Arthur?" he asked, leaning over Arthur's shoulder and watching him work until he managed to piece together the answer himself. "Aw, did they burn? That's cool, sometimes I burn my food on purpose 'coz it tastes better that way. Like hot dogs. They're _way _better burned."

With a snort, Arthur gave Alfred a sardonic look from over his shoulder, almost jumping away when he realized just how close together that brought their faces. "W-well… I don't think burning these gives them a particularly pleasant flavor…"

Immediately Alfred's hand reached out to snatch the scone from Arthur's grasp. "I'll be the judge of that," Alfred declared, holding the scone up to his mouth. Arthur tried not to look too hopeful when the American took a bite, chewed, and then paused to give the scone an incredulous look. Finally Alfred swallowed. "Dude, that's seriously dry. But did you put chocolate chips in this thing?"

Arthur poured Alfred a cup of coffee – he made it specifically for Alfred once he had voiced his dislike for tea (the uncouth brute). "I uh, decided to try something new," he mumbled. He definitely wasn't going to tell Alfred that those were raisins. Hell, Alfred was a bloody moron, but seeing the American continue to munch on the scone and drink his coffee between every bite, well, it made him feel a little bit better somehow.

Arthur's green eyes glanced over the modest meal he'd prepared, feeling somewhat proud of himself. Usually only his Mother cooked on holidays, and doing this by himself, for the first time; it was a good feeling. "Ah! That reminds me. I have something for you."

"Huh?" A few crumbs flew from Alfred's mouth, and Arthur punched him lightly on the shoulder. "Ow – stop hitting me! What do you mean you have something for me?"

The American excitedly followed Arthur into the small sitting room of his flat. "Well, it's Christmas," he half-explained as he reached up onto the top shelf of his bookshelf and pulled down a neatly wrapped gift. He hadn't been sure why he'd even bought it – he certainly hadn't intended for it to be a gift. But that was neither here nor there. With a sigh, Arthur pushed the gift into Alfred's anxious hands. "Happy Christmas, Alfred."

"…You got me a Christmas present?" Alfred breathed, his face contorted into a childish wonderment as he turned the small, rectangular gift over in his big hands. "Wow! Oh man, I feel like such a douche now! I didn't get you anything!"

Arthur shook his head. "Don't worry about it. Just open yours. It's not going to open itself."

The sandy blond hesitated a moment. "I promise I'll get you something, too," he mumbled sheepishly before tearing into the red wrapping paper. "It's… a book?" He pulled the thick novel from the ripped paper and examined the cover with a keen interest.

The Briton flushed slightly. "Ah, well, yes. It's about these space pirates that quest for an ancient treasure hidden on an uncivilized planet and –"

Arthur's flapping mouth snapped shut when Alfred simply held up a hand and waved it in front of his face. The American boasted a large grin as he tucked the book under his arm as he leaned in closer to Arthur – so unbearably close and whispered, "You had me at 'space pirates'."

"And now we should eat!" Arthur exclaimed suddenly, pushing himself away from Alfred as he made his way to the kitchen. "Jolly good idea, if I do say so myself." His face certainly wasn't reminiscent of a fire truck, or a tomato, or anything of that sort. And he definitely did not continue to feel the tingle where Alfred's breath had brushed across his face. Most certainly not.

They spent the rest of Alfred's lunch eating and watching most of a children's Christmas special on the telly – one that Alfred said they played every year without fail; one that he'd been watching every year since he was just a lad.

"My cousin Matthew and me, we'd watch these shows every night for the two weeks leading up to Christmas. We even had those paper chains that counted down the days – you know? Those were the good old days." Alfred smiled warmly as Arthur stood up to stretch, glancing at the clock in his kitchen. "But that's back when we lived in Maryland. He's in Canada now, and I'm here in New York. Time sure does change things, huh Arthur?"

The Briton nodded solemnly. "It certainly does," he replied, somewhat off put. "Your three hours is coming to an end…"

Alfred looked down at his wrist watch. "Oh, I guess it is." He huffed. "Well, thanks for having me over, Arthur! I had a great time." He picked himself up from the couch and headed for the door, slipping his feet back into his shoes. Arthur opened the door for him with a tiny smile.

Both men hesitated momentarily in front of the open doorway, as if time itself had begun to stand still while Arthur's heart beat erratically in his chest. Finally Alfred was the first to move. The American flung his arms around Arthur's shoulders in a tight squeeze, nestling his nose into the crook of the Briton's neck. Slowly Arthur brought his arms up and lightly returned the gesture. It wasn't as awkward or uncomfortable as he thought it would be, and Alfred tore himself away soon enough – a massive grin plastered on his face.

"I'll catch ya later at work, Arthur!"

Arthur watched, feeling numb and warm all at once as the American skipped (there really wasn't a better word for it) down the hall and into the lift. "… Until next time, Alfred."

-o-

The lounge was deserted with the exception of himself and the sandy blond who seemed to have become a permanent fixture on his favorite couch. "Do you ever work?" Arthur asked with a roll of his green eyes, pulling a cigar from his silver case and lighting a match.

Alfred stretched, patting himself down for his pack of cigarettes before deciding that he didn't need them today. The American had revealed to Arthur that he only smoked when he felt stressed, and these days he had been smoking less and less. So Arthur was going to take the absence of the menthol fags as a good sign. "Sometimes. When I feel like it." He gave Arthur a side glance. "So, what're you doing for New Years?"

Arthur shrugged, inhaling deeply and blowing smoke up towards the ceiling. "I don't know yet. I have the day off, so I think I'll just drink myself into oblivion. That sounds better than sitting around and watching the telly all day."

"Drinking alone?" Alfred harrumphed, flicking the Briton's shoulder with a childish smile. "How about a drinking buddy then, yeah? I have the day off too – a long time coming – and I don't like to get wasted alone. Weird shit happens when you drink alone, you know?"

"No, no I don't know," Arthur replied with a disbelieving shake of his head. "Normally I just wake up half dressed and in need of a shower."

The American chuckled under his breath. "Well, if that's the case, why don't you just amuse me? I'll come over and we can drink until we forget our names – sound good to you?"

Arthur considered the proposal for a moment, pretending to stroke his chin in deep thought, just to irk Alfred a little. "Bring your own alcohol and I'll let you in my flat."

"Deal."

-o-

When Alfred showed up at his doorstep at five in the afternoon on New Year's Eve, his arms filled with paper bags that contained more alcohol than a teenage house party would ever need, Arthur really shouldn't have been so surprised.

"If I wake up tomorrow and I'm not in a hospital bed getting my stomach pumped, I'm going to be really disappointed," the American said pleasantly as he stepped into Arthur's flat, toeing off his shoes and heading to the kitchen to deposit his bags onto the table.

Arthur's nose crinkled slightly. "You're a moron," he grumbled, pulling out a bottle of brandy from one of the bags. Now was as good a time to start as any. He grabbed a couple square glasses from a cupboard and handed one to Alfred. "Ice?" He poured generously when the American simply shook his head no.

With a tiny smile, Arthur picked up his glass and held it out to Alfred. "Here's to a new year," he toasted, as was tradition.

Alfred looked as his own glass before knocking it gently onto Arthur's. "To a new year and to amazing friends. Mainly the stuffy British one named Arthur."

The Briton didn't know whether he was supposed to be offended or flattered, and settled on lightly punching Alfred on the shoulder. "S-shut up, you git! You don't know what you're talking about."

"Uh huh…" They both tossed back their drinks.

Alfred laughed, much too loudly for the small room that they sat in, tilting his half empty glass back and forth. "And so… And so I told her, 'No way, ma'am. Take yer fish lips somewheres else!'"

Arthur grimaced, flicking at a melting ice cube that floated in his drink before taking a long swig. It was only nine. "I doubt that," he grumbled sourly, stretching over the sides of his armchair so that he sat sideways in the cushion. "I bet you did kiss her – and… you took 'er home, too. Bonked a few times and maybe she's up the stick somewhere with your illegitimate child."

The American paused, looking hard into Arthur's surly face. "You… you are mean when you're drunk, you know that? Mean. A meanie-weenie."

"You haven't seen anything," Arthur said, taking another drink before standing, swaying slightly, to pour himself some scotch. Good ole scotch. "They say… who was they? I don't remember. But they say I'm really bloody bitter." He filled his cup, taking a quick sip before taking his seat once more. "I don't know what they're talking about. Prats."

Alfred smiled, much too widely. "Aw, c'mon, Art! You ain't got nothing to be bitter about!"

With an angry sputter, Arthur sat up, nearly spilling his scotch on his trousers. "Nothing to be bitter about!" With glass in hand, he pointed at Alfred. "L-let's start with that name you called me – the one… Art! What the bloody hell is _that_? What, Alfred – _Al_, how do _you_ like it?"

"People call me Al all the ti –"

"And! Look! Look Alfred! Look at what I'm li – living in! Here!" He ignored Alfred's meek protests of '_What's wrong with it? I think your apartment is cool…_' and took another drink of scotch, grimacing as the grainy texture rolled across his tongue. "Damn America and damn Americans! I'm stuck here – this place! Well, not for long. I'm going back to England. Back where everything makes sense."

The flat grew deathly still as Alfred gave Arthur such an intense look, that it alone almost slapped him sober. "What do you mean you're going back?" Alfred asked; his voice was both small and loud in Arthur's ears all at once. The American stood, setting his glass on the floor and walked over to where Arthur sat, leaning over him. "W-when are you going back?"

Arthur swallowed thickly as Alfred's arms all but caged him to the chair, one hand on the arm next to his head and the other on the top of the seat as the American bent low over him. "The end of March," he whispered. And damn if he didn't feel like crying at the sound of his own words. He was leaving in March; gone; _never coming back_. And he would be leaving Alfred here. His friend – the obnoxious American.

Alfred bit his lower lip. "So soon?"

"That's over two months away," he murmured, tilting his head to the side so he didn't have to see Alfred's hopeless face – the sadness. He'd never seen anyone get so upset over him before. And dare he even think it? – But he was kind of happy for that fact.

A heavy, shuddering sigh fell from Alfred's lips. "That's not long enough," the American almost barked out, suddenly loud after such soft words, making Arthur flinch slightly. "That's not enough time with you, Arthur! It's just not!"

The American's hands moved from the couch to ball tightly into the fabric of Arthur's shirt. "Alfred, love, what's wrong?" Arthur found himself asking gingerly, placing his own scotch on the floor so it wouldn't spill – at least not on him.

"It's just… I…" Alfred groaned as he struggled for words. "Arthur, how much of this are you going to remember in the morning?"

The Briton shrugged. "I haven't a clue."

"I'll risk it," Alfred said cryptically before pushing himself down onto Arthur and sealing their lips together in a searing, alcohol laced kiss.

After the shock of their position passed, Arthur moaned and Alfred tensed, as if preparing himself to be hit. But Arthur simply reached up and wound his fingers into the American's fluffy blond hair, leaning upwards to meet Alfred just as enthusiastically. He was only doing it because he was drunk, he told himself. If he had been sober, he would have pulled away. He would have looked Alfred in the eyes and asked him what his intentions were. He would've done so… so many different things.

His fingers pulled away from unbelievably soft hair and played with the first two buttons of Alfred's shirt, enjoying the way their lips smacked together wetly, and the feeling of the American pressed on top of him, and the hot breath that tickled his ears and aroused him. With a sudden urge, he struggled under Alfred until the American hesitated and pulled away, yet still remained close. Arthur used the space to his advantage and flipped Alfred over so that the American landed on the floor with the Briton straddling his hips.

Arthur's practically full glass of scotch spilled onto his rug, and fuck, he didn't care right now.

"Are you sure about this?" he asked heavily as he began to stroke the line of buttons on Alfred's dress shirt, waiting for approval to continue; a yes, or a nod, a sign or anything! "…Alfred?"

The American stared up at him with hazy eyes and for a moment Arthur thought that maybe he'd gone too far; but Alfred simply took off his glasses and tossed them aside, uncaring. "Never been more sure 'bout anything in my whole life," he said, slightly slurred as he pulled Arthur down to his level to reinitiate their kiss.

Clothes were peeled off bodies and supple skin was explored beneath rough, lusty hands. How they ended up in his bedroom, Arthur didn't know. But what he _did _know, as he pressed Alfred's naked body down onto his starchy bed, was that this had to be the single most wonderful risk he'd ever taken in his entire life. Because that's what Alfred had called it – a risk, and bloody hell, did it feel _right_.

-o-

The next morning he woke groggily. His throat was scratchy and his head pounded unpleasantly. Arthur blinked open his eyes and stared absently at the ceiling. He had gotten drunk last night, he knew, but not as drunk as he normally did. A few snippets of events came rushing back to him like water from a broken dam. It was New Year's Eve; they were drinking; he admitted he was going back; and the sex. Oh, the mind blowing sex.

Arthur stiffened slightly as he thought about it. Alfred had been so _wanton_, begging and crying underneath him for him to _stay_, and at the time there was nothing he wanted more than just that. But now the reality was settling in. He hadn't had enough to drink – he remembered _everything; _Alfred was going to wake up confused and with a sore arse wondering just what had happened last night. And what would Arthur tell him? We had hot, steamy sex? Not bloody likely.

It had been a risk, his tired mind reminded him. Alfred had risked it – but what? Risked Arthur remembering? Was it supposed to be a one-time thing that neither should remember? He frowned and shifted beneath his sheets.

Something warm and heavy was draped across his waist, and he peered down to see Alfred's arms wrapped securely around him, the American's face pressed just under his ribs as if Arthur were a child's sleeping toy.

Arthur sighed and let his head fall back pathetically onto his pillow. His mind was jumping from excuse to excuse, but none of them seemed _good enough_. He was about to force his way out of bed when a shuddering sigh escaped Alfred's mouth and something hot and wet trickled onto his side.

"Alfred?" he asked, sitting up carefully, trying to pry the American's face from his naked torso. "Alfred what's going on?"

Alfred pulled away, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes quickly. "Ugh… n-nothing… uhm…" Slowly he took his hands away from his face and Arthur bit his bottom lip at the sight of Alfred's watery eyes. They looked so incredibly blue, that the Briton felt he could drown in them. "Uhm, Arthur? What… what all do you remember? From last night, that is."

Arthur hesitated, pulling the bed sheets higher up his waist in a desperate attempt at decency. It was a bit late for that. "…That… That depends," he answered, refusing to look the American in the eye.

There was a long silence between them, and for a moment Arthur wasn't sure what to expect. Should he leave? Did he have to call the police? He really didn't feel like filing a police report so early in the day. Finally he gathered the courage to glance up at Alfred. A few stray tears had fallen from the corners of his eyes and left salty trails down the crevasses of his cheeks. Suddenly Alfred's eyes narrowed and then widened as if he had discovered something ground breaking.

"I… Alf – mmph!" He was cut off when a pair of dry, sleep ridden lips pressed against his and two, warmer than life hands gently cupped his face. And it was as if the last piece of the puzzle fell perfectly into place. Alfred hadn't risked Arthur remembering last night's events.

He had risked Arthur forgetting.

Not that he ever could.

-o-

"I want to take you on a date," Alfred said into the crisp, January air. The snow crunched under their feet as they walked down the sidewalks, the moon a dull light twinkling off the white covered surfaces.

Arthur sputtered, nearly slipping on a patch of slick ice. "Y-you _what_?" It was strange enough that Alfred had wanted to walk him home after work tonight, but this? "Are you batty? Take me out on a date? _Me_?"

Alfred half-frowned, a corner of his mouth tugging down before his face brightened once more. "Yeah! I mean… I know we're not like… _official_… or whatever, but Arthur – I… I _really _like you. A lot. And I just want to… you know, _be with _you before… you know…"

The Briton sighed, knocking his shoulder against Alfred's, somewhat teasing, although his face remained a stiff line of seriousness. "Alfred, I'm leaving. Shouldn't you be trying to distance yourself from me? To keep yourself from getting hurt? That's what any sane man would do, you know."

"Who says I'm sane?" he asked incredulously, pausing and letting his brows furrow as he registered what exactly he had said, then frowned as Arthur made no jest of it. "I mean, seriously, it would hurt more – I think; if I just left you like that." He stopped walking; pulling Arthur to the side and holding him close. "I just want to spend every moment I can with you, while I still can. Is that so wrong of me?"

Arthur grumbled, trying to ignore the way his face felt hot and tingly at Alfred's sweet words, and the warm body that pressed against his. "I… I suppose not…"

"See! And, Arthur, if I could, I'd strap myself to your back if you'd let me, just so I could be with you all the time!"

"Not bloody likely!" Arthur wrenched himself from Alfred's grasp as the American laughed jovially.

When they reached Arthur's door, Alfred set his hand on the handle as the Briton was about to open it. "Arthur," he breathed, leaning in close enough so the tips of their noses touched lightly. "You have Friday off, right?" Unhurriedly, Arthur nodded, his eyes intently focused on Alfred's intense blue ones. "Will you allow me to take you out for dinner? Say, at six?"

Arthur swallowed thickly, urging himself not to smile. He was not a girl, dammit, and he was _not _going to allow himself to fawn in front of Alfred. "I… sure. Okay," he mumbled weakly, somewhat upset that Alfred could have such power over him like this. An idea struck him and he allowed himself a pointed grin. "On one condition!" he announced, pushing Alfred's chest as the American tried to lean in for a kiss.

"Oh? And what would that be, huh?"

The Briton opened his door further, his keys jangling as he slid them from the lock in the doorknob. "Wherever you decide to take me, whether it be pricy or that disgusting place you call McDonalds, you cannot, by the power invested in me, order a burger of any kind."

Alfred paused, his face torn between shock and despair. For a moment he looked like he wanted to challenge Arthur, but he only sighed, his shoulders slumping slightly. "_Fine_. You're so mean to me." Alfred laughed lightly and held Arthur's face between his hands, tracing his thumbs back and forth beneath grass green eyes. "But I have just one question."

"Mhm? And what would that be?" Arthur mumbled back, enjoying the soft ministrations perhaps a little _too _much.

Alfred leaned in close, his hot breath tickling over Arthur's nose. "Just what power do you have invested, hmm?"

Arthur grinned devilishly, leaning up to seal their little bargain with a kiss. Alfred knew _exactly _what he was talking about.

-o-

"_No sir, I'm truly sorry, sir. We don't give credit to cancellations of international flights. There is a three hundred dollar cancellation fee. And flights cannot be cancelled any later than a week prior to the flight date. I'm sorry sir," _the feminine voice said over the phone, overly apologetic as he tried to think of ways to make this whole mess work out.

"So, even though it's two months until the flight date, I cannot receive a voucher or anything of the sort?" He tried not to grumble irritably as the woman expressed her apologies again and again. This was bloody ridiculous. He was never flying on this airline ever again. "Okay, thanks. I guess." And with that he hung up and threw the cordless phone at his sofa with more muscle than he had intended, watching it bounce off the cushions and crash onto the floor.

This was not working out like he had planned. Well, he wasn't even sure what he had been planning; more like hoping – grasping at straws for an easy way out of everything. And at every turn there were doors slamming in his face, barring entrance, and leaving him little to no option.

Either he stayed, or he went.

It was incredibly cruel that he had to choose. England or Alfred? Why couldn't he have both? Arthur sighed sadly, his chest aching so furiously, that for a minute he almost wanted to cancel his date. But he would never do that to Alfred, not when they had so little time left.

He buried his face in his hands, willing himself to stop thinking.

-o-

It had been a month since that fateful, drunken night. Alfred had treated every moment they had together like precious bits of treasure. It both warmed his heart and made him feel ill. Because once he was gone – it was over. No more spontaneous dates, no more sly invitations, no more sex in soft, clean sheets.

Arthur scribbled a few angry notes in the margarine of a couple's receipt, noting that they had shorted out the socket in the bathroom during their stay. He would probably have to charge it to their card – even make a report. He kind of hoped they sued, just because that's how his day was going.

As always, he was meticulous in his work, organizing bookings and receipts for the night and morning staff, taking notes in gentle cursive writing that belied his anger. "Blasted wankers," he muttered darkly to himself as he began to file away the thick manila folders. "They think they can just waltz in here and -"

"Kirkland."

Arthur's head shot up so fast, for a moment he thought he gave himself whiplash. "Y-yes sir!" Arthur answered to the bark of his surname, mortified and embarrassed that his boss, Ludwig, had overheard him complaining (bitching) about customers. The tall, broad-chested German gave Arthur a steely glare, his hands folded tightly behind his back. "I… can I help you…?"

Ludwig nodded firmly, pulling his hands from behind his back and resting them on the counter between them. "Yes." He frowned lightly. "Our CEO has requested to see you; now. About the application you put in for an abroad transfer."

Arthur's thick brows furrowed in confusion. "But I didn't apply for any-"

"That doesn't matter. He asked to see you, personally." Ludwig's stern face lightened a little. "Just go see what the man wants."

The Briton sighed. He hoped he wasn't getting fired – he only had a month left, anyway! (But he still needed the money, and pretty badly at that.) "I… suppose. Who will man the front desk while I'm away?"

Ludwig's face steeled once more. "I will," he answered, somewhat curtly. Arthur got a feeling that the man didn't like the idea of it. "The CEO's office is on the nineteenth staff floor. It's the one with the American flag pinned to the door. You can't miss it." The German rolled his eyes before stepping around the corner and behind the desk.

Arthur nodded, somewhat shakily and left, purposefully ignoring the way Ludwig suddenly stiffened. He probably just noticed the cigar ash smeared on the floor.

The lift ride up to the nineteenth floor was probably the most excruciatingly long minute and a half of his life. Who was the CEO? Why was he even in this building? He hadn't thought that company big-wigs actually worked out of their own buildings. And more specifically, how did he know about Arthur? Maybe word got around that he was leaving and they were having trouble replacing him – although he highly doubted that. New York was full of hundreds of thousands of people; at least one of them had to be out of a job.

It troubled him to the core, and he couldn't help but worry on his lower lip as he wandered down the long hallways between offices, looking for an American flag like an idiot.

Finally he came upon the door, and Ludwig had been right. Pinned over the entirety of the door was a flag, silky and bright as if it had been bought just yesterday. Gathering up his nerves he raised a hand to knock, but stopped himself. Would it be a desecration to the flag posted here if he knocked upon it? (Not that he cared, but his boss / CEO probably would, and he couldn't have that.) But he simply couldn't just open the door either, that would be rude. Perhaps he could just knock on the wall next to the door… but the CEO would probably think he'd knocked on the door all the same –

And bloody fucking hell why was this so difficult!

He rapped his knuckles against the door and flag, huffing angrily at the overzealous display of patriotism. It was annoying. A muffled call of '_come in_' had him opening the door and stepping inside carefully. He had prepared himself for everything he could think of except for what he saw.

Alfred sat behind a large, mahogany desk, twirling a fountain pen between his fingers with an overly bored expression on his face. "Arthur! You're finally here!"

When the door clicked closed behind him, the Briton seemed to snap back to his senses. "I… you… what?" he stumbled over his words, gesturing between himself and his American lover. "What're _you _doing here, Alfred?" he finally managed to ask. "I was told the CEO wanted to see me…"

"He does," Alfred replied with a bright smile. "In fact, he wants to see you again tonight, for a romantic dinner at Patricia's Place. But that's beside the point. You really should sit down, you know."

Mechanically Arthur took the seat on the opposite side of the too large desk, fiddling with his shirt and trousers. Maybe he walked into an alternate dimension. He was dreaming. Maybe he'd died and this was some sick trial towards gaining entrance to heaven. Alfred chuckled. "Dude, don't be scared or nervous, or whatever! It's still me. Please don't act any different…"

There was a small, barely recognizable pleading sound to Alfred's voice that made Arthur pause and glance up. Those eyes, so loving and happy, were still the same now behind that desk as they were when they were sharing coy touches in a darkened room, or when they were simply chatting nonsensically in the hazy lounge on the first floor. He gave a strained smile. "You… You never told me. Told me that you were my boss."

Alfred grimaced. "Don't say it like that! I was your friend first!" He tapped his pen nervously onto the surface of his desk. "I just… didn't want you to treat me differently, you know? Or… I don't know… take advantage of me or something stupid like that."

Arthur snorted. "You certainly get strange ideas in that void between your ears," he grumbled, relaxing back into his chair as Alfred made a face at him. "By the by, you needed to speak with me?"

"Yeah, actually." Alfred reached behind him and grabbed his rucksack, pulling a fat, steel file folder from within and flipping it open. "I know you didn't really apply for an abroad transfer, but I kinda did the liberties of looking into it for you – you know, just to see what I could root up. And well, I managed to find a decent position at a similar hotel chain that we're partners with over by Newcastle. It's a bit of a drive from your apartment there, but it's not too much of a stretch."

The American looked up from his files uncertainly, gauging Arthur's sour face carefully. "Uhm… I'm sorry. I didn't mean to pry or anything I just thought that…"

"Are you agreeing with my decision to go back, then?" Arthur asked softly, feeling somewhat heartbroken. He had thought – he assumed so many things… but to think that Alfred accepted the fact that he was leaving… it tore at him a little (a lot).

Alfred slammed down his metal file case, his masculine face stern as he leaned over his desk towards Arthur, making the Briton jump slightly in his seat. "Of course I don't agree with it!" he ground out. "But…" he sighed, sitting back down and looking off to the side. "I can't just… leave you to figure everything out on your own. Not when I know I can help. I l –"

"Don't say it, Alfred… not now, not here…" Arthur's voice was small, as if he wanted to collapse in upon himself and completely disappear. This man… was so much more than he could have ever deserved to have in his life – even if it were for but a few months.

But Alfred would have none of it, and stood, leaning over the desk to place a finger under Arthur's chin to force the other man to look him in the face. "I _love _you, Arthur Kirkland. I don't care where you're from, or where you're going, or anything like that. I love you and I want to help you in any way I can."

For a moment, Arthur simply wanted to melt into Alfred's arms (he'd never had office sex before). But he settled on pressing his lips onto Alfred's, quick and chaste. Their lips stuck together slightly as he pulled away as slowly as he possibly could. "I love you too, Alfred," he whispered into Alfred's smile.

Arthur pulled away from Alfred quickly, clearing his throat and trying to act as if nothing had happened. "Anyway, if you… if you could manage to secure me that position, I just might be grateful enough to go on a romantic dinner with you at Patricia's Place tonight."

Alfred laughed his loud laugh. "Well, it'll take a few days for the paperwork to go through; so will knowing that it's my first priority be enough to convince you out to dinner tonight anyway?"

"Fine, fine," Arthur said with a dismissive wave of his hand, a light smile on his face. "If that's all, I really must get back to work. Ludwig is watching the counter for me, and I'm afraid of what he might do if left unattended for too long." The Briton opened the office door and paused, glancing at the flag with a small scowl. "Oh, and love?"

The American glanced up from his paperwork, quirking a brow. "Yeah?"

"I would recommend getting rid of this absurd flag. I didn't know if I was supposed to knock on it or not."

A short chortle escaped Alfred's lips and Arthur made a rude gesture at him before leaving, deciding to _not _slam the door like he wanted to. He still had to keep up pretenses.

But as he walked to the lift, he felt doubly better than he had but twenty minutes ago. He could always leave it to Alfred to put a bounce into his step.

-o-

"Three weeks," Alfred breathed solemnly, squishing a little bit of half melted snow with the toe of his shoe. "It's going by way too fast. Arthur, stop the world and let's get off together."

"Oh, bugger off," Arthur chided, pushing Alfred away from him as they walked towards the massive, concrete parking garage. "Anyway, what was it you wanted to show me today?"

Alfred grinned, looking down the busy street before jaywalking across the road at a boyish sprint, leaving Arthur to follow, weaving between crawling cars and taxi's as they made their way to a red light. "So! I wanted to show you what I do when I'm really bored," Alfred was saying as they reached the other side of the street.

The American led Arthur into the concrete complex, heading into a lift and pressing the button for floor three (reserved parking). "That's wonderful and all, but Alfred, what exactly are we doing in a public parking garage?"

"You'll see," Alfred crooned; sing-song-y. When the lift doors opened, Alfred led him across the lot inside, and he tried to ignore the stagnant oil and fume smell as they went. "Ah, here she is!" Alfred cried, running up to a black Cadillac and pet its hood lovingly. "This is Becky – she's a spoiled thing. I normally take her out for drives out of the city, that and when I'm visiting the family in Maryland. But I think today is a special day."

Arthur gave the car a long, sardonic look. "You named it Becky?" was the only intelligent thing he could think to say about the subject.

The sandy blond gave a dopey grin. "Yep!" He pulled a ring of keys from his pockets and unlocked the car. "C'mon! Get in! She's such a smooth ride, I'm tellin' ya!"

With a roll of his eyes, Arthur complied. They spent about fifteen minutes in traffic, talking idly about this and that, as if they had the rest of their lives ahead of them, instead of a few weeks. And Arthur tried not to think about it too much when he packed most of his personal affections that he had gained while in New York. He would wait on clothes and other more used items as the date drew closer.

"Arthur! Arthur do you see what I see?" Alfred shouted suddenly, making Arthur wince at the sheer volume of his voice.

The Briton followed the projection of Alfred's pointing finger, frowning slightly. "All I see is an empty parking lot filled with pigeons."

The American turned to him with a frighteningly excited grin. "Exactly!"

Quickly the sandy blond began cutting through lanes of traffic, causing a slur of blaring horns and raging taxi drivers before pulling into the parking lot. He let the car idle a moment before turning to Arthur, who was busy trying to repress the heart attack the thought he was having. Who gave this man a license? He was going to have to kill them. "Are you ready for this?" Alfred asked as he rolled down his window.

"R-ready for what, exactly?"

"Let's get 'em, Becky!" Alfred cawed as he popped his head out his open window and stepped on the gas, swerving directly into a flock of pigeons. Panicked, Arthur grabbed the handle above his door, the one that Alfred had properly dubbed the 'Oh, shit' handle, as the American began swerving around the parking lot, literally chasing the clusters of pigeons as they flew away – barely dodging the fender of the car, only to land again nearby.

Alfred laughed and giggled maniacally, the chilly breeze ruffling his hair. Arthur braced his hands against the dash, his eyes wide and disbelieving. Honestly, were they chasing pigeons in a _car_?

A quick and loud burst of siren and a flash of red and blue lights put a sudden end to Alfred's fun and he slumped back into the car. Arthur hid his face in his hands. He did not know this man, it was utterly embarrassing.

An officer had spotted them and pulled his vehicle next to Alfred's, stepping out and slinking over to the American's window. "Sir, ya know this is private property?" the officer asked, resting his hands on the utility belt that was strapped securely around his waist.

Alfred shrugged. "I'm sorry, I had no idea! There aren't any signs around here at all!" he said, wide eyed and gesturing to the parking lot around them. "I got lost and got a little caught up in chasing around the pigeons."

"Right…" The man gave Alfred a calculating look before nodding. "I don't think ya caused any harm, but from now on please remember this is private property and not a donut rink, 'kay?"

Alfred nodded, giving the officer a fake salute. "You got it! Sorry about that!"

They waited for the cop to return to his car and drive off before letting out a collective breath of relief. "You are a bloody idiot!" Arthur bellowed once he deemed it safe. "Who goes around and fucking chases pigeons. _Pigeons_!"

The American grinned sheepishly. "Aw, c'mon! It wasn't so bad. At least now you can scratch it off your bucket list!"

"It was never on it to begin with!"

Alfred shrugged as he put the car back into drive and rolled out into traffic. "But you know what the best part about it was?" he asked, giving Arthur a toothy smile. The Briton only shook his head in answer. "I totally knew that was private property."

Arthur buried his face in his hands. He was in love with a buffoon.

-o-

Arthur had just finished his lunch, and the sleepy Spanish man, who normally vacuumed the rugs and pulled gum from the carpets, was still watching the front desk for him, so he felt somewhat assured as he headed for the lift and to the nineteenth floor, as a text from Alfred asked.

He wondered just what Alfred wanted that was so important. Or at least was important enough for him to have to weasel out of his duties. This was his last week, and the thought was enough to make a cold stone drop into the pit of his stomach. Maybe Alfred just wanted to spend more time with him? He couldn't doubt that, as he found himself wanting to be in Alfred's presence as well. But at work? Well, it wasn't completely unfathomable.

Quickly he made his way down the long stretches of hall, hesitating when he caught sight of the familiar red, white and blue. "Really, Alfred?" he muttered to himself as he examined the door. The American had indeed taken down the obnoxious flag, and replaced it with several miniature flags that covered every square inch of the door, with the exception of one, six centimeter, by six centimeter square paper that read: _knock here_.

Suppressing the grin that tried to break its way onto Arthur's face, he knocked. He couldn't look happy – not when that Spanish guy was most likely drooling on his clean counter – and it was Alfred's fault.

"Come in!"

He pushed open the door, eyeing Alfred as he sat behind his desk, poking at a Blackberry with a concentrated look. When the sandy blond looked up from his device, Arthur pointed at the door. "I take it that this is your doing?" he asked, a little twitch of his mouth portraying his amusement.

Alfred smiled. "You like?" he asked, smiling harder when Arthur simply shook his head and closed the door behind him. "So! Now that you're here, I have some awesome news all around!" He set his Blackberry down and pushed his glasses back up the bridge of his nose. "Should I start from the least awesome to the most awesome, or the other way around?"

"Does it really matter?" the Briton asked as he took a seat, running his fingers tiredly through his fringe.

The American shrugged. "Not really." He pulled out a metal file case from a drawer in his desk and opened it, producing a fountain pen from the pocket of his pants. "These are your transfer papers! Everything went smoothly, and if you'd just sign right here," he made a quick 'x' next to a dotted line, "everything will be in place and you'll be officially employed at Utopia Hotel Inc."

Arthur glanced at the neatly printed papers before him. "Really?" he asked, taking the pen from Alfred's hand and allowing their fingers to brush with a lingering touch. He felt so incredibly grateful to this man. Alfred nodded, seemingly pleased with the flustered and relieved look that etched itself onto Arthur's face. Quickly the Briton signed his name. "Thank you… thank you so much, love," he breathed, as if he'd just surfaced from water he'd stayed under for far, far too long.

Alfred only smiled his too big smile, reaching across the desk to take Arthur's hand in his own. "Now that that's done, it's time for the super awesome, amazing ultimate news!" he boasted, squeezing Arthur's fingers slightly.

"Is that so?"

The sandy blond nodded enthusiastically. "You're probably going to be mad at me for this, but not for too long!" His smile turned sheepish for a moment as Arthur's gaze narrowed at that bit of information. "Well, since it's your last week and all… I just… I approved you for vacation for the rest of the week until the date of your flight – paid of course!" he tacked on hurriedly when Arthur looked like he was seriously going to hit him. "And myself too!" His face drooped into a childish pout. "I'm… kinda selfish and shit, yanno? And I just wanted this last week to ourselves…"

Arthur took in a long, calming breath, his fingers aching for a cigar or anything to relax his jittering nerves. "And how, exactly, do you plan to spend this week, Alfred?" he asked slowly, trying his best to _not _rip Alfred's head off. He'd only the best intentions, but still, it would have been polite to at least _ask _him about a vacation. Alfred was a bit too quick to abuse his power – at least, when it came down to tiny things like this.

"Well… I know your stuff's already all packed up and some of it's already been mailed… and I was kinda hoping you'd come and stay with me…? At my place! I mean, you've never seen it before, and I figured now's as good a time as any, right?"

The sheer hope and excitement that poured through Alfred's face was enough to make Arthur look away shyly. Sometimes it just felt completely strange to be loved and wanted so desperately like this. It made his chest hurt and warm and numb all at once. "I… I don't see why not…" he murmured to the surface of the desk.

A large sigh rushed passed Alfred's lips. "Oh, thank you!" he cried jubilantly. He scrambled around his desk and threw his arms around Arthur, nuzzling his nose into the crook of the Briton's neck. "Thank you, thank you!" the American muttered over and over, placing a few open mouthed kisses to the pale flesh of Arthur's neck. "You have no idea what this means to me."

Arthur chuckled in the back of his throat, placing a single, warm kiss to Alfred's temple. "No, I'm sure I have a decent idea."

-o-

Arthur knew, somewhere in the back of his mind, that Alfred had money – and probably a lot of it too (not that it mattered to him – he would take the American straight off the street), but this – this was more than he had bargained for.

Alfred's flat – no _penthouse_ – was enormous, well furnished, and looked like it had been bought maybe a week ago (it would've been yesterday if it weren't for the burger wrappers and pizza boxes on the kitchen counter). "This… this is…"

"It's nothing special," Alfred cut in, pulling off his leather jacket and laying over the back of a sofa. "I like your place better. It reminds me of where I grew up in Maryland. This is just… where I come to sleep."

The Briton frowned, removing his own overcoat and laying it next to Alfred's jacket. "Oh?" He glanced around the living room and almost immediately his eyes were drawn to a medium sized fireplace with a brick mantle and an antique confederate officer's sword resting upon it. "You have a fireplace!" Arthur grasped one of Alfred's hands, unintentionally weaving their fingers together as he stalked towards it.

The late March chill still hung about the city, not quite yet blooming into spring and Arthur tried not to look pleading or excited when he asked if they could start a fire to keep warm – if only for tonight. Alfred chuckled. "Sure! If I had known you liked the fireside so much, I would've invited you over here a long time ago."

Arthur watched as Alfred messed with a few dials on the side of the mantle, slightly disappointed that it wasn't a wood burning fireplace, but was fueled by gas, much like an oven. But either way, it still had the same effect as lazy, orange flames flickered over fake logs, casting a sensual glow upon the dark living room. Arthur smiled contently, wrapping his arms around himself and wishing for a good book.

"Now," Alfred said lowly, sidling up to Arthur and pressing himself flush against the Briton. "There are a few rules to your stay here," he mumbled, carefully licking the shell of Arthur's ear and blowing on it, making the British man shudder.

"Is that so?" he asked, failing at keeping the wanton tremor from his voice. He loved it when Alfred took control like this, because sometimes being dominated was the most arousing thing he could think of – on the same level as dominating.

Alfred hummed, nuzzling his nose against Arthur's. "Well, okay, not really. But there is one!"

Arthur laughed softly. He really, really fell hard for this git, didn't he? "Well, are you going to tell me? Or are you going to stand there like a post all night?"

"The rule is that, before you leave, we have to – and I quote, "_have to_", have sex on every surface we can." Alfred grinned wolfishly. "That's the only rule." He placed a quick kiss to the side of Arthur's mouth. "So! Do you want to start with all the kinky places and work down to the most conventional? Or maybe the other way around? Or maybe we could just mix it up, or go by room…"

One of Arthur's thick brows peaked in amusement. "How about we start right here, by the fire," he whispered, leaning in close and pressing a loving kiss to the American's lips.

Alfred sighed happily through his nose, his hands crawling down Arthur's sides and dipped into the front of his pants.

"I love you so fucking much, Arthur."

-o-

The airport was loud, the staff was grumpy, and Arthur felt like he was being crushed under the weight of a thousand kilograms. Alfred's pinky was wrapped securely around his own as they walked towards the terminals, slowly – as if they were attempting to move through molasses instead of air.

The security line was horribly long, and even though they had arrived earlier than was truly necessary, the longer they stood there, the more Arthur felt as if he were going to break into tears. "I… don't really want to go," he whispered after a while of trying to find his voice.

"And I really don't want you to go," Alfred replied, just as quietly. They watched the lines flux, the minutes on the digital clock, the airlines that were leaving and arriving. "You promise to keep in contact?" Alfred asked for maybe the hundredth time that day.

Arthur nodded. "Of course I will, love. I don't know what good it'll do…"

"It'll do my broken heart wonders."

Arthur pursed his lips, his fingers tightening on his shoulder bag. "Alfred, I love you, I truly do –"

Alfred silenced Arthur with a finger to his soft lips. They ignored the strange and maybe offended stares around them, because none of it mattered. Right now all that mattered was Alfred and himself. And that was it. "I know," the American said gently, his blue eyes bright with unshed tears, and Arthur wanted nothing more than to kiss them away. "You're not coming back. I understand. You can't come back." He smiled sadly. "Actually, I'd be a bit disappointed in you if you did. You're a man of your word, you know?"

"Of course I am." He slipped his pinky from Alfred's and grasped his hand tightly. "I have to go," he squeaked out, his voice betraying him in the least convenient of moments.

The American nodded slowly before angling his face down and placing a quick, chaste kiss to Arthur's forehead. "I love you."

"I love you, too." Unhurried Arthur separated himself from Alfred and stepped towards the security checkouts. He'd never felt so horrible in all of his life. He didn't think he could feel this awful after being hit with a coach. His heart plummeted further and further into his stomach with each step that led him further and further away from Alfred.

"Arthur!" The sudden shout of his name made his head snap up and look back over his shoulder. Alfred's face was flushed and he raised a hand in the air. "Don't forget about me!" he commanded, somewhat childishly from his spot next to a large, potted plant.

Arthur gave him a watery smile and waved goodbye.

Like he could ever do such a preposterous thing.

Alfred was unforgettable.

-o-

Two months in England, and for the first time in a long time, he was finally starting to feel as if he had a home again. His flat wasn't some hole in the wall, he paid for things in pounds, people knew what a rubber was, and he returned to the sleepy, relaxing atmosphere he was accustomed to instead of the insane hustle and bustle of New York. He was in his element, and it soothed the pain he bore.

The only thing missing in his life was the presence of an American man who he still loved dearly. But phone calls and emails weren't enough anymore. And the ache in his chest was now raw and no longer bleeding.

That first week back had been the worst. His mother couldn't fathom why he was so depressed and sulky about being back home, and had baked him snacks and treats every day as if it were the only cure in the world for lovesickness (not that she knew he was heartbroken to begin with). But finally he managed to pull himself together and go to work as he normally would. He got back into contact with a few of his old friends and tried to pick up his life where he had left it off before he went to America.

But today was his day off, and he decided to spend the rainy late-May afternoon sitting in the window seat, smoking a half burned cigar and reading a novel he'd recently picked up at the bookstore. Life was a little slow now, but he tried to take it in stride. His phone sat silent in his pocket and he continually placed his hand over it, to make sure it hadn't vibrated.

It had been two days since Alfred last called or texted him, and now he was beginning to worry. Maybe… maybe Alfred had forgotten about him? Or perhaps he had found someone knew – it was possible, as Alfred was handsome and had money. Or maybe Alfred was simply tired of him. He was boring as it was in person – but long distance? He didn't even want to think about it.

Alfred had moved on; and maybe he should too. Arthur took a long, sad drag of his cigar and snuffed it out in the ashtray he had set next to the window. Sometimes he wished he worked seven days a week, just so he didn't have time to think about anything. Not that that could ever happen, it'd make his life too easy.

There was a loud, irregular knocking on his flat's door that made him jump in his seat. "Coming!" he called reflexively from his seat, struggling to his feet as he set his book aside. Who could possibly be visiting him now? He pulled the chain lock away from the door and wrenched it open, mustering his best glare. "Who -!"

But what he saw made every word, every thought, motion, _everything_, stop and fall to pieces. Standing hunched and out of breath on his doorstep, was Alfred, a damp newspaper in his hand. He looked up at Arthur and his face split into the brightest smile – one that the Briton thought he'd never, ever see again. "A-Arthur!" the American cried, literally jumping into the flat to wrap his arms around Arthur and nuzzle his nose into his favorite spot of Arthur's neck – right where it met his shoulder. "Oh, my God… Arthur… I missed you so much."

"Alfred…?" He almost pinched himself, just to make sure he wasn't seeing things. This couldn't be real, could it? It was too perfect, too mind blowing! But Alfred's slightly damp, sandy blond hair tickled at his face, and the hot tears that soaked into his shirt were warm against his skin. Arthur's arms encircled Alfred's waist after his initial shock wore off. "Alfred! What are you doing here?"

The American leaned back from the embrace, quickly wiping at a few runaway tears with the back of his hand. Alfred's face was flushed and happy. "I was just, you know, thinking of opening a new hotel in the area. So I'll be staying for a long while."

Arthur's smile nearly broke in half as he cupped Alfred's face and pulled him into a long, passionate kiss. Closing the door with a foot, he stepped back and fell onto his couch – one that his Mother had bought him as a housewarming gift – and pulled his American lover on top of him.

And as wanton hands explored one another all over again, greedy and never satisfied, Arthur couldn't help but think that something so wonderful and perfect and _good;_ all started with a bad habit.

-o-

_Unimportant Notes: _The End! I hope you enjoyed it. I worked hard on incorporating a few themes, like: never forgetting, more than meets the eye, twoo wuv, and I bet you don't listen to your English teacher enough. You should. They don't get paid enough.

Also, I apologize if England/Arthur is OOC, is too American-y, and all that. :D Have a fantabulous day!


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